


The Benefits of Historical Gardens

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is horny and FURIOUS about it, F/M, Modern AU, PWP, frolicking in the foliage, look this fic is pure crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26496823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: Brienne comes across Jaime Lannister's photoshoot forHistorical Houses of Westeros. She's not happy about it.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 115
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaomiGnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaomiGnome/gifts), [EllisJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllisJay/gifts).



> So awhile back, I made the mistake of admitting that a particular photo of Nikolaj Coster-Waldau made me feral hindbrain activate in a way few things do, and one of these days I was going to see it and snap and write Jaime getting a garden blowjob. I would share a link to this photo, but honestly I went looking to credit the specific shoot (it's Euroman 2014) and I just ended up hurting myself because _every other photo from that shoot fills me with an equally frustrated rage_. Don't look. Save yourselves.
> 
> Point remains, SOME PEOPLE decided that this was a GREAT idea and regularly bombarded me with that picture and some... very evocative gifs until I, in a phlegm-induced fit of rage at that damn picture, wrote the damn blowjob. In hindsight, I was NOT MAD ENOUGH. HOLY SHIT.

Brienne hadn’t meant to interrupt the photoshoot. 

Admittedly, there was a lot she hadn’t meant to do: hadn’t meant to apply for the job at Casterly Rock, certainly hadn’t meant to take it if it was offered. But it was a chance that would never come again, to oversee the opening of one of Westeros's last Great Houses. Hadn't meant to interact with Lord Lannister at all, his reputation for arrogance preceding him. Hadn't meant to suggest an exhibit so controversial— _Ser Jaime Lannister, Hero or Villain?_ with the answer being both—that the board had attempted to fire her. Hadn't meant to be outside the chambers when Jaime had stormed out of meeting with the board, sparing her a curled lip and "You're a pain in my ass, Tarth." It was only when his cousin Addam—the board's financial officer and the only one originally in favour of the exhibit—followed him a moment later, giving her a smile and congratulating her, that she realised what it meant. She was fairly certain it had been pure madness that had led to her confronting him over it, and was _absolutely_ certain she hadn't meant to fall in love with him when he'd sprawled in the chair and given her a dismissive once-over. "You were right. If I'm opening up my... _ancestral home_ , I'm not going to do it by pansy-footing around the history. Do you want to grab dinner?" She _had_ meant to say yes, and did.

All of which was to say, she didn’t intend to crash the photoshoot, but she was not at all surprised that her mid-morning walk had landed her directly in the middle of it.

She heard them before she saw them, and in hindsight she should have taken a right at the gardenias, but her mind was half on the re-enactors she’d hired the day before and she just...hadn’t. So she turned the corner just as Jaime was being _encouraged into a bush_ by the photographer as the interviewer asked him what had convinced him to finally open Casterly to the public.

“As you know, my father passed away recently,” he smiled, a little sadly, a little reverentially—she had to give him credit, he was a _very_ good actor. “The history of Casterly Rock was incredibly important to him, and I can think of no better tribute to the man he was than to share it with the rest of Westeros.”

It was a good line, if utter bullshit. Casterly was expensive, Casterly was old, and Casterly was in need of repairs not even Lannister coffers could justify. That it would flip Tywin Lannister a post-mortem middle finger was merely the icing on the cake of necessity. It worked on the interviewer though, who tittered appropriately and expressed her sympathy for his loss.

Brienne had to admit, whoever had styled Jaime that morning—his assistant Pia, most likely, though it’s possible the magazine had brought one of their own—had gone above and beyond. The dark-wash jeans and white t-shirt would be entirely unremarkable if they did not fit so well, and the overcoat he wore… well, Brienne was fairly certain that whatever audience _Historical Houses of Westeros_ usually had, they were not prepared for Jaime Lannister.

As he carefully posed, still in the bushes, legs spread and hands folded at just about crotch level, Brienne decided she’d buy at least two. It was godsdamned offensive, really. Only made worse by Jaime smiling at the interviewer, genuinely this time.

“Really though, opening Casterly was a hugely ambitious project and without Dr Tarth spearheading the whole thing we would have been entirely lost,” he said, in that entirely-without-pretense way he had on occasion. “I cannot say enough good things about her work, and we are incredibly fortunate she’s agreed to stay on as visitor experience coordinator despite the high demand for her services.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. She’d had _one_ other offer, and no interest in leaving her fledging historical child just yet. Not that it had stopped Jaime from telling anyone and everyone how good she was at her job, amongst other things. As if on cue, he saw her, his entire face softening as he met her eyes.

“Speaking of the good doctor,” he said, “I do believe we’ve disturbed her morning constitutional. Exercise, very good for the mind.”

The photographer and journalist both turned, doing a double-take that was quickly masked. Brienne tried not to shift under the attention. In men’s jeans and a loose t-shirt—decidedly _not_ fitted like a glove designed to make women salivate as they claimed a newfound interest in architecture, unlike _some_ people—she hardly looked like a respectable medieval historian. Or people’s idea of one, at least. With only the magazine present for the day, she’d taken the chance to relax and enjoy the grounds before the visitors came, but she was regretting the choice now. 

Thankfully, Jaime gave one of his grins, drawing the attention back to himself. 

"I know, I know," he said conspiratorially. "She saves the tweeds for special occasions."

She tried not to blush, the memory of how he'd enjoyed removing them the night before still vivid, fingers on buttons and his lips against her neck. Based on the smug expression on his face, she didn't succeed.

The interviewer smiled at her. “Ms Tarth—”

“Doctor,” Jaime interrupted.

“Yes. Doctor Tarth. When we’re done with Lord Lannister we’d love to speak with you as well. Restoring the grandeur of Casterly Rock, pride of the Westerlands, must have been a real feather in your cap. Our readers would love to know more about it.”

Brienne would rather chew glass. She knew what the articles would say— _the plain woman is a stunning contrast to Lord Lannister’s natural beauty_ practically writes itself, overshadowing anything of value she had to contribute on the topic of restoration and the opening of the house. She can’t expect much more from a magazine that believed the best way to promote a house was taking obscenely attractive photos of its owner standing in a godsdamn bush. Which he still was, for some reason. 

“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “All statements must go through the board.”

“Speaking of which,” Jaime added, “I’m sure they’re waiting for you inside. If we could finish these photos, that would be great. Lady Tyrell does _not_ like to be kept waiting.”

The Tyrell matriarch was a delight, but did not suffer fools. Brienne almost felt sorry for the journalist for having to face her before lunch, but then she looked at Jaime’s carefully crafted stubble and windswept hair and _honestly fuck them all_. This whole article was an affront unto the gods and her composure. And she had to sit back and _watch_ as Jaime smoldered through half-lidded eyes, and laughed easily, as he laced his long fingers together and shot her a look _as if she could possibly have missed the implications of that pose_ , and it was quite possibly the longest twenty minutes of her life.

“Just a few more,” the photographer said, and it took all of Brienne’s hard-won dignity not to scream. 

She was a professional. She could get through this. She just had to stand there and _not_ focus on the stretch of denim across his thigh and think of nibbling her way along the flesh, burying her nose against the curls between his legs, taking his— She was a professional. She could get through this.

“Jaime, if you could just mess up your hair a little?”

Fuck this. She stormed off in the direction of the hedge maze and the folly in its middle, a frankly terrible reconstruction of a Stormland-style lighthouse rumoured to have been built by one of the previous lords for his wife. Not that the style was consistent with any era in which there was a wife of unknown or Stormland origins, but it made for a good story. As did the rumours of ghost lions in the tunnels beneath the Rock. And the— _the point was, it was a very ugly folly and she liked it very much_. Especially when it was far, far away from Jaime looking like _that_. Far away.

Not far _enough_ , admittedly, when every time she closed her eyes she could picture the way the pale grey light managed to highlight the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and… She groaned, slumping onto the bench near the folly and tilting her head back.

She didn’t even move when she heard footsteps approaching from behind, fingers lacing through her hair and massaging her scalp.

“Poor Jeyne thinks she offended you,” he said, quietly.

“Hmm?”

“The journalist. She said she wanted to do profiles of female curators and what a boys’ club it still is.”

“Oh.” Brienne opened her eyes, and even upside down Jaime was handsome. Bastard. “Do you think I should…”

“I told her that we had a… fraught dynamic, and to approach you another time.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He leaned over to press a kiss against her forehead. “I thought it more modest than ‘Don’t mind my girlfriend, she gets cranky when I look this good.’” 

Brienne laughed despite herself, and tilted her head back a little more, enough to brush a kiss against his lips, affection flooding her chest.

“You’re a fool,” she said fondly. “How did the interview go?”

“Fine. Stuck to the talking points. Lots of legacy, historical background, the credentials of the board, how happy we all are to open the house. Cers is going to be pissed enough she manages a facial expression through the Botox, so that should be fun. You definitely need to stay for dinner on Sunday.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

It was an old argument, in its way—Brienne disliked his family, with their sharp minds and barbed insults, and could not bear to risk being flayed before them, and he would never ask her to beyond this game. 

“Can it be both?” she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Come sit down.”

He rounded the bench, sprawling in the space next to her, an arm resting along the back of it, as if he’d asked nothing at all. The man _lounged_ , like a godsdamned housecat. 

“Do you know what they say about that lighthouse?” he asked, tilting his chin in the direction of the folly.

“No, as the restoration expert of Casterly Rock I have no knowledge of a major feature of the grounds.”

“You’re getting sarcastic, Doctor. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You’ve gotten into me.” She had realised what she’d said even before his grin, not that it made it any better. “You know what I meant! Gods, you’re the worst.”

“Do I?” he purred, leaning forward. She thought he meant to kiss her, but his mouth hovered a hair's breadth away from hers, his breath warm, teasing. “I’m really not certain I do.”

She laid her hand against his thigh, fingers picking at the inner seam of his jeans, feeling his muscles tense and relax. Moved imperceptibly closer, until a single word would have lips against lips. Grinned. Waited.

He broke first, a querying tilt of his head and brush of his lips, so gently it might have been her imagination, then another, more certain but still seeking permission. Sweet and slow, drawing her out, making her long for more until she deepened it, a playful flick of her tongue and then— 

He could kiss like a devil, when he wanted. DIstracting, consuming, pulling every impulsive piece of her out until she was practically in his lap, her hand between his thighs to find him half-hard. She broke away, breathing raggedly. Cupped his cock more firmly, and his hips made tiny, aborted thrusts as he tried to maintain control, tried to seek the friction of her touch. Trailed her hand up to the button on his jeans, tugged it lightly. 

“Doctor Tarth,” he groaned, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Perhaps it was that he was beautiful, or open, or the way her name sounded in his growled voice, like the last salvation of a doomed man, but it made her reckless and foolish and brave, and she nipped at his mouth. “You know me better than that,” she said, sliding from the bench and onto her knees before him. Looked up at him, his eyes already blown wide. “Yes? Or no?”

He swallowed, audibly. Ran his knuckles against her cheek. “You don’t have to.”

“Thank you for that stunning insight,” she grumbled, ready to rise to her feet; the hand on her cheek slid down to cup the back of her neck, gently, not enough to keep her there but…

“That wasn’t a no,” he said. 

“It wasn’t a yes.”

His jaw worked, and she rubbed her thumb along his thigh soothingly. For all his confidence, for his beauty and riches, he’d so very rarely said _yes_ to the things he wanted in favour of peace, or legacy, or expectation, and Brienne had no interest in being someone’s maybe. He tugged her gently upward and leaned down at the same moment, meeting her halfway with another soft kiss.

“Yes,” he said, voice ragged, and then, “please.”

Her fingers trembled as she undid the button, pulled the zip down slowly. Tapped his thigh to encourage him to lift up, just enough to slip his jeans down. He hissed as her fingers skimmed beneath the waistband of his boxers, as she gripped his hip and nuzzled her cheek against his leg. 

“Brienne…” he warned. “They’re up at the house now but—”

“Best not to push our luck?” she asked, tongue darting out to punctuate her query against his leg; it was a ridiculous action, the sort of thing that seemed much more sensual before she did it, but he groaned and gripped the bench with both hands, the veins and tendons flexing as his fingers curled against the dark metal, his mouth parting. “You’ll have to be quiet then.”

She pulled the boxers down to reveal his cock and balls, nudged his legs further apart so she could get closer. Ran a single finger along them softly, watching, then traced the same path with soft kisses, took him in her mouth as he grew harder. Felt his body tense beneath her palm, then loosen, felt him take a steadying breath. Her gaze darted up, past his stomach and chest, the hollow at the base of this throat, the curve of his smile, until she met his eyes, somehow achingly _tender_ as he looked at her. She sucked, lightly, just enough to make his mouth drop open, a surprised grunt escaping him. Swirled her tongue around his cockhead, catching the first hint of saltiness, wrapped her hand around the base of his cock. Moved in a familiar rhythm, a little faster than usual, a little more eager to draw his short little gasps, _uhuh uh_ , his head jerking with each one, his hips canting to get closer, deeper, _please please Brienne I’m going to— please_ , stripping him of any pretense but this _want_ , his hands still holding onto the bench, knuckles white. Took her mouth from him just long enough to blow gently against it, the cool air making him gasp, whimper before she slipped him inside again, his balls tightening against her palm, her finger stroking, pressing, holding off his release as he swallowed, breathed harder, clenched his teeth, the tendons on his neck in sharp relief, as his hand came loose from the bench to flail towards her, not touching, not demanding; stroked a final time as she flicked her tongue against his frenulum and he came hard, hips jerking as she swallowed him down. 

She released him slowly, feathering soft kisses against his spent cock, and rocked back on her haunches. Looked up at him, red-faced and wrecked against the foliage. Wiped the corner of her lips as he fumbled to pull his clothing back to rights. Stroked a hand against his denim-clad thigh. 

“I’ll come to dinner,” she said quietly, and he blinked. 

She hadn’t intended to say it, but there were a lot of things she hadn’t intended to do. She didn’t regret any of them. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentallyed another chapter. Reasons for this include: Gwen photoshoot in a garden, Gwen photoshoot with the line of her thigh which I DIDN'T EVEN APPRECIATE PROPERLY IN THIS, and a bet with forbiddenfantasies about whether I was capable of writing fluff. Booyah! Try not to get cavities, this fic is sickeningly sweet. 
> 
> Also, this is not edited and I'm sorry for that, but also if I looked at it any longer I would lose my mind

Jaime knew that Brienne was concerned about the Rock’s opening, but the day dawned bright and clear, and by mid-afternoon it was an obvious success. He’d spent most of the morning wandering between the house and grounds, observing visitors and admiring the variety of activities arranged as extra entertainment--a blacksmith in the smithy was working on some iron fencing that would be used in the gardens, the kitchens were putting out bread and churned butter, and a falconry exhibit was going on in the large courtyard. His father would have hated it, the unwashed masses filling the hallowed halls of Casterly Rock, but it filled Jaime with an odd sense of satisfaction. 

He had reached the kitchen gardens when he saw Brienne on the far end, tucked in the narrow space between the gardener’s shed and the high wall, and he smiled. Knowing the chances of media coverage, she’d opted for a shirt dress in a dark green, though the lines were rather ruined by the walkie-talkie hanging at her waist--nothing would keep her from being in touch and in charge of today. 

“Doctor Tarth,” he called as he drew near. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

She looked at him with a sort of calf-eyed suspicion--good, she _was_ learning--but nodded, then jerked her head towards the Staff Only door and pulled a set of keys from her pocket. Better than he could have hoped. He followed her into the small shed, filled with pots and tools and lit by a weak light from the deliberately frosted windows, and kicked the door closed behind them as he caught her around the waist.

“Jaime!” she protested, laughing.

“I just wanted to congratulate you, doctor.”

She beamed. “It’s going very well, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t doubt it for a moment,” he agreed, tugging her close and leaning up to press a kiss against the soft skin of her cheek. “I knew you were the right person for the job.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “You had nothing to do with me being hired, Jaime.”

“Mmm, no,” he hummed. “I distinctly remember. I told the board to hire only the best, then played the novelty pop cover of _The Rains of Castamere_ on my phone as a warning. I’m sure they were frightened into scouring the length and breadth of Westeros to find someone as diligent as you are.” 

Shaking her head, Brienne wrapped her arms around Jaime’s shoulders. “Well then, thank you Lord Lannister,” she conceded, eyes crinkling when he recoiled at the name. 

“You’ve gotten diabolical!” he gasped in mock affront. “Who was it? Tyrion? Cersei? _Aunt Genna?_ ”

“I don’t know what you mean, my lord,” she said.

He tightened his grip on her waist with one hand, the other slipping down to find the hem of her dress. He brushed his fingers over the skin at its edge, gratified by the soft intake of breath. “Brienne,” he purred, nuzzling against her neck. “I believe I’ve told you to call me Jaime.”

“That would be unprofessional, Lord Lannister,” she said with false primness.

His fingers nudged her skirt up slightly, his thumb stroking against the soft skin of her inner thigh. “Then it’s a good thing I had nothing to do with you being hired,” he teased, not moving any higher until she sighed, the warmth of her breath tickling against his ear.

“I’m on my break for another” --she paused, lifting one arm from his shoulders to glance at her watch-- “seven minutes.”

“See?” Jaime said against her neck, fingers gliding upwards until he felt the edge of her knickers. “ _Diligent._ ”

She was warm here, and he toyed with the elastic, swiped his thumb against the cotton, the slightest bit of pressure enough to make her inhale. He could tease her, draw her arousal out as much as their limited time would allow, and when he buried his fingers up to the knuckles in her cunt, the smell would linger for--

The walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Doctor Tarth?” 

Brienne pulled away to place one hand over Jaime’s, grabbing her radio with the other. “Yes, Podrick?”

“We’ve had a bit of a problem.”

Jaime felt Brienne go stiff even before she disentangled herself completely, her laughter immediately replaced by the quiet and competent certainty that had first intrigued him. “Where and what?”

As her assistant explained the problem--a kid who’d managed to slip beneath a barrier to pet one of the stuffed lions in the great hall--Brienne righted her dress, her blush fading away. “I’ll be right there.” She gave Jaime a vaguely apologetic smile, though he knew she was already running through her security choices in her head. “I’m sorry, I have to--”

“Go,” he said. “I’ll see you for dinner tonight. Reservations are for 8 o’clock, so you’ll have plenty of time to congratulate your staff and deal with any firebreathing from Olenna Tyrell once the grounds close.”

She squeezed his hand in gratitude before striding from the shed; Jaime waited a moment before following, thankful his sweater was long enough to obscure any lingering evidence of what, precisely, they’d been doing. 

* * *

It was past seven when Jaime, changed into a suit, made his way through the now-empty public sections of the Rock towards Brienne’s office. It was possible she’d headed home to change--the building had been closed since five--but he doubted she was anywhere but behind her desk, punctiliously filling in paperwork and running over the day. 

The lights _were_ on and the door unlocked, but when Jaime knocked there was no answer, and when he swung it open to step inside--the room was her office now, but it had been his mother’s private study when he was a child and not even ‘Doctor Tarth’ on the door could defeat old habits--he was surprised not to see Brienne at the heavy oak desk. Her laptop was on, he could see enough of the screen to tell that, so he presumed she’d stepped out to grab a drink and turned to sit on the battered old couch by the door.

She was there, fast asleep--mouth parted, the skirt of her dress falling to her hips where she’d bent her leg to fit her full length onto the couch. Trust her to nap on what appeared to be the most uncomfortable looking piece of furniture in Westeros. He’d buy her a new one tomorrow if she’d let him, but he suspected any such offer would be met with protests and then grumbles about ethics and board-approved budgets despite the fact he had no influence on her position. 

Perching on the edge of the cushion by her knees, he extended a hand to her thigh, shaking it gently. “Brienne.”

She shifted, her skirt rising high enough now he could see the pale blue of her underwear, the shadow at the juncture of her thigh. He looked away before he gave too much thought to nibbling that exact bit of flesh, the heat he’d felt against his skin in the shed.

“Brienne, wake up,” he said, a little louder, embarrassed by the lump in his throat he needed to swallow past. 

Her eyes blinked open, slowly, and there was a softness in her bleary smile. 

“What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch, then at her exhausted expression. “Just after seven,” he said, “but the restaurant called--there was a mistake with the reservations and they’ve asked if we can go tomorrow.”

She struggled to sit up despite the awkward angle, wiping at her face. “Oh. You’re alright with that?”

“Mm, I thought it might be nice to order in instead since you worked so hard. But if you’d rather--”

“No,” she said hurriedly, then smiled. “No, that sounds wonderful. I don’t think I stopped moving for more than five minutes altogether today.”

He squeezed her thigh gently and leaned in to kiss the corner of her mouth, but she turned her head, parted her lips. Met his kisses with her own, slow and sweet, cupping the back of his neck as she pulled him in, moaning softly as he pressed her against the cushions, his hand gliding up her thigh as he moved to straddle her. To feel the strength of her body against his. 

He did not, however, account for the size of the couch, and promptly fell off. 

Righting himself with a laugh, he pressed his forehead against her leg.

“Are you alright?” she asked, barely suppressed giggles in her lovely, deep voice, her fingers carding through his hair gently; the incongruity of it made his heart clench, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. 

“Fine,” he said, and then--partially in a bid to spare his dignity but mostly because they were stretched before him--he brushed his lips to her leg, making her laugh and squirm, then trailed kisses up, up, head beneath her skirt, until he could smell her, musky and familiar. Sliding his fingers ahead to hook beneath the fabric of her underwear, he pulled them down and tossed them aside. She sighed in contentment, her hands lacing behind his head and urging him closer. 

There was nothing better than this; the first swipe of tongue against clit, the barely perceptible clench of her grip, the scent of her. The slow tease, the slightly bitter flavour against his tongue. The soft gasps as he luxuriated in her, as she bucked against his mouth demanding _more_ and _slower_ and _faster_ , the sharp inhale as he pressed his finger into her, crooked it just so, the way she arched off the couch, muffling her cry against her hand. 

When he pulled away, minutes or hours later he neither knew nor cared, her head was thrown back against the arm of the couch, her long throat exposed and the mottled flush of her arousal extending down past the collar of her dress. He could unbutton it, he knew, trace a path down, feel the heat against his tongue, bury himself so deep within her it felt like they would never be truly apart ever again, but with a final soft kiss against her thigh he stood instead, offering her a hand.

“Come on,” he said. “The couch in my apartments is much more comfortable, and we should have something to eat.”

She gave him a lazy smile, sliding her hand into his and hauling herself upright. She quickly shut down her laptop and tucked some paperwork away, and took his arm as she turned off the lights and led him from the office. 

“Jaime,” she said, pausing as they headed out the staff entrance and turned towards the private residence, “did the restaurant _actually_ mess up the reservation?”

He laughed. “No.”

“Jaime! You can’t--”

“I’ll text Tyrion,” he said, shrugging. “You know he forgets to eat and his office is just around the corner, it’s practically doing him a favour.” She gave him an unamused look, and he raised a hand. “There’s still time if you…”

“No,” she admitted. As if on cue, she smothered a yawn behind her hand, an unassumingly sweet motion. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I just…” 

He smiled and reached out to pull her against him, tilting his chin up to meet her eyes. “Brienne, you did an amazing job, and if I get to celebrate that with you, I’m happy.”

In the dusky light he could see the way she blushed even as she smiled, bright and open. 

“Come on,” she said, tugging on his arm. “The night is so beautiful, we should take the long way home.”

“Through the gardens?” he teased.

She bit her lip, trying to hide her smile. “Through the gardens.”


End file.
